Tidge is asleep, the key from Soli locked within the cage of his fingers. Mouse hovers. Tries to lift it away but his brother holds it tighter, still asleep. His sister looks across; he smiles, embarrassed. Asks her what else their father left because the memory box is soaked in their mother and he’s sure, sure, their dad would have left something more of himself.
‘I don’t know. There’s the doll. What else do you want?’
‘Maybe there’s something in it. Let’s rip it open!’
‘It’s just a toy. Dad had it as a kid.’
‘But why … this?’
‘Because—’ She stops. ‘It’s complicated.’ Sighs. ‘Dad said he wanted us to have … the solace of imagination.’ Her eyes screw up with the effort of trying to get it right.
‘But what’s some manky old doll got to do with it?’
‘He wants us to believe that it can help.’ She closes her eyes, attempting to slip into her father’s words. ‘He said that people who have faith have this … serenity about them, this strength, that people who believe in nothing just don’t. That those kinds of people can be all sour and unhappy and restless and empty, and how horrible is that? He says that people who’ve reached the pinnacle of their faith, whatever it might be, are at peace. Filled with love and light. And maybe that’s a good place to be. Especially now. He says at the heart of any religion is compassion, and it’s all we have to get good at. And the doll might remind us. Or something.’ She frowns, can’t quite remember, looks at her brother; he stares back blank. ‘Dad said that at the height of any faith you can feel filled with love and strength and if we got anywhere near that, then, well, it might just help. That’s it. I think.’
Mouse rolls his eyes.
‘He said people with faith can do amazing things.’
‘Amazingly horrible things.’
‘Not always, Mr. Sometimes quite the opposite in fact.’
Integrity creates a body so vast a thousand winged ones will plead, ‘May I lay my cheek against you?’